


Looking Back

by ScyllaAndCharybdis



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Ambiguous Age, Blow Jobs, Closet Sex, Closeted Character, First Time, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jewish Character, M/M, Stozier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-07 21:36:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20824187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScyllaAndCharybdis/pseuds/ScyllaAndCharybdis
Summary: As Richie sits alone in the synagogue, it stirs up memories he didn't even know he had forgotten.





	Looking Back

Richie stumbled backwards, Stan’s fists balled around the neck of his t-shirt guiding him roughly into the darkness of the cramped closet. The air smelt stale and faintly of mothballs, and there was hardly enough room for the both of them to stand without whacking into something. Richie’s knees slammed into some stack of boxes he couldn’t even see, nearly toppling the both of them over in the process. But Stan was there to catch him, firm and steady. 

Stan pressed his lips to Richie’s, simultaneously moving his leg between Richie’s knees to pin him up against the shelves. The fluidity of the motion, paired with the way that a shelf was jutting uncomfortably into the small of his back, made Richie part his lips in a faint gasp. Stan took this as his chance to slide his tongue between the other boy’s chapped lips. Richie tasted like bubblegum and soda: sickeningly sweet. After a second, Stan pulled back slightly and softly, breathlessly, murmured, “Are you okay?”

Richie took a beat, before blurting out, “I…I’m gay.” His voice was frantic and a little too loud: all the pent-up emotion and intensity of his confession tumbling out at once. 

“Yeah, Rich, I know…?” The answer was accompanied by an incredulous chuckle, and through the low lighting Richie could see the corners of Stan’s mouth quirk upwards into a smile. 

“Oh no,” Richie’s eyebrows furrowed, and he started to raise a hand to cover his face, “that was such a dumb fucking thing to say. I mean, of course I-, we just, we literally-”

Stan leaned forward again to reinitiate the kiss, doing his absolute best not to roll his eyes. _How could Richie be so goddamn oblivious?_

This time, without the element of surprise, Richie opened his lips more and let them sink into a deeper kiss. Not one to be outdone, Richie surged forward, desperate to show that _Hey! I could be in control if I fucking wanted to_ but all he ended up accomplishing was clacking their teeth together in a way that he felt reverberate in the back of his skull. The kiss was sloppy, and frankly pretty bad. Despite all his bravado, it was painfully obvious Richie had no idea what to do with his tongue. Or his lips. Or his hands. Stan, on the other hand, was sure and steady. He ran his hands softly through Richie’s hair, tugging gently at the curls, before cupping the sides of his face with both hands _so he would stop moving his head so damn much_. It made sense, he guessed, that the motormouth would have so much restless energy to burn.

Stan hitched his knee up a little, and was bemused to find that Richie was glaringly, borderline embarrassingly, hard. He slid a hand between them to palm along the outside of Richie’s jeans, and grinned to himself about the absolutely salacious noise it elicited. “Here,” he whispered, hands drifting up to unhook the button of Richie’s pants, “let me help you.”

Richie nodded intently, momentarily speechless. A vibrating, anxious energy was buzzing palpably around his head, and Richie was desperately trying to play it cool despite himself. Stan let the jeans fall unceremoniously to the floor and dropped less than gracefully to his knees, ending up face to face with Richie’s Tweety Bird boxers. “Really, Rich…?”

Richie reeled back like he was going to start arguing, but instead the words got trapped in his throat. He swallowed hard, tipping his head back and closing his eyes, as if steeling himself, “Y’know I’ve…I’ve never actually done this with…well, with anyone before. I know I always talk a big game but…I’m just full of shit, Stan. I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing”

“Richie, literally any one of us could have told you that. And not just with sex stuff, you’re just full of shit in general.”

They both stopped in their tracks for a beat and giggled. It felt so right, so natural. Stan had always been so sweet and so honest and so _there_. He was a calming, anchoring weight for when Richie started to spiral wildly out of control. _How could I be so goddamn oblivious?_

“So, are you cool if I…” Stan gestured vaguely to the patterned boxers at his eye level. 

Richie let out a breathy, quivering sigh, “Yeah…”

Stan hooked his hand into the waistband of the boxers, pulling them down roughly and settling awkwardly at mid-calf level. Stan’s warm breath ghosted faintly over Richie’s erection, and Richie genuinely thought that the anticipation was going to physically kill him. Stan gripped one hand around the base of his cock and experimentally wrapped his lips around the head, letting the warm weight rest on his tongue. Richie moaned a little too loudly before biting down hard on his lip, briefly concerned he would draw blood, while the voice in his head that ironically sounded a lot like Stan chanted _someone’s gonna hear us, someone’s gonna hear us, someone’s gonna_ –

Stan set a gentle pace, taking as much into his mouth as he could without gagging. He tried to match with his pumping fist moving up and down Richie’s shaft. It was all a little too dry, and a little too arrhythmic, but the strangled sounds squeaking out of Richie’s throat seemed to imply that he didn’t mind at all. Richie’s mind was racing and he was finding it hard to believe that he wasn’t dreaming this. This was Stanley _fucking_ Uris. _We were in fucking Hebrew school together. How is this even fucking real?_

It was over almost as abruptly as it started. Richie tried to let out a warning, but his mouth and his brain did not exactly seem to be friends at the moment. Stan moved his head back a little too late as Richie came, and got a faceful of semen for his efforts.

“Ugh, dude…”

“Oh shit. Oh fuck. Stan, I’m so fucking sorry! Here, uh…” Richie turned to frantically through the shelves behind him, getting himself tangled up in his pants and underwear in the process. He found a pile of old napkins, remnants of some long-forgotten Saturday morning’s refreshments, and started helping Stan clean up the mess he had made. 

X

The bubble of the memory burst suddenly, and Richie was thrust viciously back into reality. He stood up from the empty pew, stretched, and rubbed at his eyes roughly. He wasn’t teary-eyed, exactly, but the sudden surge of memories had taken him by surprise. _How the fuck could I have forgotten?_

As he crossed the threshold towards the exit, his eyes lingered on a familiar looking storage closet. Richie tried the door handle, but found that sometime in the past two decades someone had the forethought to install a lock. _Probably for the best_. He grinned briefly to himself, wondering if he and Stan had been the reason for the change.

He closed his eyes and pictured Stan: the way he was and the way he might have been now. How much more tolerable would all this insane crap be if he was here? Richie shakes his head, real tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. He decides it doesn’t matter, really. Stan might be dead, but the others aren’t. At least, not yet. Richie heads to the door with a new, hardened resolve. He feels a dragging urge to glance over his shoulder, to let himself get bogged down in memories again, but he resists. _No more looking back_. 


End file.
